Among the Great
by Peradan
Summary: When the Ring is destroyed several hours too late, the army at the Morannon is almost destroyed. The survivors are left to rebuild their world from the shambles of their devastating victory.
1. Chapter 1

_If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.  
**--Durin's folk, to **_**_Thráin_**

_--- _

"I am sorry, Éowyn," Faramir said gently. She turned her head away. She no longer felt the lassitude that had so long possessed her. She was not happy, but she could be useful; indeed, she had little other choice.

"I must go to Rohan. The Marshals will choose a new king now that Éomer is dead." Her voice remained steady on this last; she was proud of that. She did not wish to appear weak before him.

"Are there others of the House of Eorl?"

There was little of his usual warmth, and she glanced sharply at him. His grey eyes were not expressive but abstracted; she was startled to realise he was as much Lord of Gondor as the gentle man whose ability to rattle away on any subject had comforted and infuriated her through the long dark days. Now they had victory, but at such a cost --

"Yes, but none in the direct line. I do not know what they will choose."

"Your deeds have won you great renown, among your own people as well as mine." He paused, and she suppressed a shiver.

"The lord of Rohan must be prepared to ride to war," she said, "that is why she has never been ruled by a queen."

The quick flash of his eye gave his thoughts away clearly enough; she _had_ ridden to war, and she could do so again. She did not know what would be done, but whatever was decided, there was work for her, real, necessary work, in Rohan. And in Gondor?

Only a tall young man with brilliant eyes that saw more than any woman could be expected to bear. She dropped her own, and saw that his long fingers were trembling slightly.

"When did you last eat?" she asked sharply.

"This morning."

She could not stop herself from scolding him. "You should not be so careless of your own health. You are the lord of a country, your life is not your own, and I am certain your uncle would not approve, were he here."

He smiled thinly. "No, I imagine not." He straightened. "We should tell Merry. He has no other friends in this city."

She looked at him as they walked out of the Steward's apartments -- he, for the first time in their acquaintance, did not meet her gaze; and she knew without knowing how that their situations had grown even more similar than she had at first guessed. "I am sorry about your uncle," she said quietly, gathering her composure as she thought of Pippin. She had only spoken to the little halfling a bare handful of times, but she had already been fond of him, and she knew from Merry's worried, enthusiastic chatter how close the cousins were.

Her throat closed, and she briefly clasped Faramir's hand. It was cold against her own, and his face set.

"Thank you."

---

Éowyn was exhausted when she walked out to the gardens. The sight of another woman, a tall dark figure as beautiful and cold as a statue, for all that she was heavily with child, sent slivers of resentment coursing through her before she commanded her temper.

"I beg your pardon, are you lost?" she inquired. The woman started. Something about the eyes reminded Éowyn of Faramir, and she could barely keep her countenance. There was something; she was reminded of the ladies of Gondor she had seen, this woman was very like but more, somehow. She might have been twenty, or forty; Éowyn was really beginning to wonder how anybody here told the difference.

The woman hesitated. "These are the Lady Finduilas' gardens?"

"Yes," said Éowyn. "Did you mean to go to the Houses of Healing? Forgive me, you are very pale."

She smiled tiredly. "No, the Lord Steward gave me leave to remain here. It is a comfort to me; there is still beauty amid so much grief."

Éowyn felt a sudden affinity. "I feel very much the same. Are you much acquainted with Lord Faramir?"

"I had never seen him in my life, before my father brought me here." The woman's clear grey eyes met hers. "He is a very remarkable man. He reminds me a little of the stories they tell of my great-uncle."

They talked a little, mostly of Faramir, and Éowyn left, feeling somehow that the other needed the refuge of the gardens more than she did. She stopped a young servant as she passed out.

"Brandir, do you know who that lady is?"

He looked at her with wide eyes, blushing as he spoke. "They . . . they say she is the Lord Elessar's widow, my lady." In a bare whisper, he added, "They are saying that . . . that she is also Tar-Minyatur's _niece_."


	2. Chapter 2

"Men of Arthedain! you invoked the law of Númenor on behalf of the Lord Elessar, the law which proclaimed that the eldest surviving child of the King should be his successor. He claimed the throne of Gondor as the nearest descendant of the last of Ondoher's children, his daughter Fíriel, and as last heir of the first King, Elendil the Tall. Yet who was Elendil? By what right did he claim overlordship over all the Dúnedain of Middle-earth?--by his right as the nearest in descent from Tar-Minyatur first of all our kings, through the eldest child of Tar-Elendil the fourth King, his _daughter_ Silmariën. Why should you reject the heir of your own lords, when even we of Gondor, who denied the claim of Fíriel, have not?"

Faramir, Lord and Steward of Gondor, had never approved of disorderliness -- and if anything in the world could be described as disorderly, it was the tattered remains of Arnor. The Dúnedain of the North had been divided, leaderless, in the five years since Aragorn's death, and the chaos of Arthedain had long been the greatest of Faramir's concerns. They were as slow to accept change as their brothers in Gondor, and even more conservative. Sometimes he thought they still believed Sauron was still there, somewhere, about to unleash even more horrors on their scattered forces; they certainly acted as if it were the case, rather than small marauding bands easily managed.

"How do we know this is not simply a Gondorian coup?" said Belegorn, a distant cousin now, and _de facto_ leader of the most conservative element among the Arnorians.

Lothíriel smiled and said mildly, "Forgive me if I misremember, kinsman, but it was never _Gondor_ who attempted to seize sovereignty over all the Dúnedain."

Halmir, Lord of Lossarnach, had not the Princess's patience. "I will not mince words," he declared. "We accept the claim of the heirs of Isildur under one condition, that the Steward is and will remain a man of Gondor. Should you attempt to install an _Arnorian_ regent along with an Arnorian monarch --"

"That is enough, Halmir," Faramir's clear voice cut through. "My lord Belegorn, we of Gondor and Arnor share history, blood and kinship, we share two tongues. Yet we remain divided. If I permit this unnatural estrangement to persist without action on my part, I would not deserve a moment of peace for the rest of my life, however long that may be." He paused only the smallest of moments, feeling the weight of a dozen searching glances, looking for any sign of age and weariness, any enchroachment of the Gift. "I do not imagine myself an Anducal, but you cannot expect a child of five to rule, nor expect the people of Gondor to accept both a monarch and regent from without."

Later that evening, he walked into the Steward's chambers. His wife laughed merrily when she saw him. She was a woman who laughed a great deal; her birth name, _Lalaith_, was more apt than the mother who had chosen it ever guessed.

"My love, you are almost the same colour as your eyes. Have you forgotten to eat _again_?"

"Of course I ate," said Faramir,"I would not dare brave your wrath otherwise; no, I have been talking to Belegorn."

_"Oh,"_ she said, and walked over to rest her hand on his shoulders. "That certainly explains it."

After _this_ day, every inch of his six and a half foot frame ached. "Thank you," he murmured, a gentle lassitude radiating out from where her fingers firmly kneaded the muscles.

There was a pause. "And -- what was decided?"

He clasped the hand on his shoulder, and sighed, leaning his head against her. "You were right to change your name, Lalwen."

---

_The Kings of Gondor and Arnor took names in High-elven, or Quenya. When Arnor was divided, the Kings of Arthedain began using Sindarin ones instead. Similarly, the Stewards used Quenya names until they become Ruling Stewards, when they began taking Sindarin ones, presumably as a sign of humility. Faramir is the first Steward since Mardil to have a Quenya name. Lalaith is Sindarin, Lalwen is Quenya, though they are similar enough in meaning._


	3. Chapter 3

'Uncle Faramir! Uncle Faramir!' The Steward turned at the sound of small pounding steps, a smile lighting up his face.

'An_cal_imë!' Her nurse hurried along beside her. 'My Lord Steward, I beg your pardon -- '

The heir of Isildur held up her arms. Faramir easily held her, wincing as she tightly flung her arms around his neck.

'I am _so _glad to see you. It has been so boring. Old Gilwen has been talking _on _and _on _about a Steward and a princess of Gondor who wasn't called Míriel but almost and her husband tried to say that made him king which is silly and am I queen now and if I am can I sit on the throne and not be scolded because -- '

Lalwen coughed.

'Oh, Aunt Lalwen, I didn't see you on account of Uncle Faramir being so tall and you so little but it will be all right if I give you a kiss, won't it?' She stretched out and pressed her lips against Lalwen's pale cheek. 'There.'

'What is all this?' Faramir gave her The Look as he led her into her room.

'Alphros said that he heard Aunt Lothíriel talking to Uncle Halmir about it. Aunt Lothíriel says cousin Belegorn doesn't want me to be queen.' She stuck her lower lip out. 'I never liked him anyway. He is so prosy. Nobody is as prosy as he is, not even Eradan or Gilwen. Why shouldn't I be queen? Gilwen says that my papa would have been king if he had lived so then I should be a queen, shouldn't I? Then she started going on about not-Míriel and about Pelder and everyone. But then maybe only old people become kings and queens. My papa was almost as old as yours Aunt Lothíriel says, but I think she didn't like my papa all that much though she likes me and says if we have to have a ruler it might as well be me and I'd be much more sensible than most of those who wore the winged crown, but I've seen the crown and it won't fit on my head and how can I be queen without a crown, Uncle Faramir? Alphros' doesn't fit very well either though and he's Prince of Dol Amroth though he doesn't rule it because Aunt Lothíriel does because he's not old enough--'

'Ancalimë,' Faramir said, sternly, 'be silent a moment and let me speak.' She shut her mouth, opened it, then shut it again. 'Yes, you are the queen.'

Ancalimë cheered. Then she stopped. 'But I don't know _how _to be queen.'

'Alphros doesn't know how to be prince, either.'

She brightened. 'Oh. He has to go to Dol Amroth sometimes and put on uncomfortable clothes. Is it like that?'

'Just so.'

'But he has Aunt Lothíriel. And Papa didn't have any brothers or sisters, and Uncle Elrohir is always off killing orcs, I don't think he'd make a very good king though he knows an awful lot about everything except dwarves. He doesn't know anything about dwarves so he can't be king.'

Lalwen laughed. 'There is not going to be a king, Ancalimë.'

'Well that's nothing new, is it?' She blinked. 'Who is going to take care of Gondor for me?'

'I am,' said Faramir.

'Oh! that will be nice -- since you've already been doing it so long. You won't have to learn anything.'

'You are not only Queen of Gondor.'

'Really? But where also is there? Except Rohan, but I don't think Queen Éowyn would be very happy about having another queen there.'

'Indeed not,' said Faramir, highly amused. 'I was speaking of Arnor.'

Ancalimë wrinkled her nose. 'Who cares about silly old Arnor? There's hardly anybody there -- just Rangers and halflings, and they can take care of themselves.'

'_Ancalimë.' _

Ancalimë cringed at the tone. It was the tone that meant sweet gentle Uncle Faramir had been taken over by the strict and severe Steward of Gondor, who was more capable of frightening someone with a single look than anybody she'd ever met, probably _because _he was so nice the rest of the time.

'I'm sorry, though I don't know what for. But I'll be queen there too, if I have to,' she said graciously.

'Do not forget that your aunt Lalwen is from Arnor.'

'Oh! I'm sorry,' she cried. 'I didn't mean to be rude, Aunt Lalwen. It's not your fault and I'm sure there are some nice people there -- that aren't hobbits, I mean. Why, if you're Arnorian, Uncle Eärnil and Aunt Níniel must be too!'

'So are you,' Lalwen told her, biting back a smile, ruffling her hair. 'Even Rivendell is in Arnor, strictly speaking.'

She paused. 'If I'm queen in Arnor too, does that mean I can order Merry to come and play with me whenever I want?'

'Certainly not.'

'You may only start issuing edicts when you are older,' Lalwen added, with a look at her husband.

'You always say I can do things when I'm older, and I never am.'

'I think you are getting tired,' Faramir said firmly, and sent for the nurse. 'It is time for the queen's nap, Gilwen.'

After the two had trotted off, Lalwen burst out laughing. 'Oh! to see the look on your face! I long for the day when she wears the winged crown, my dear -- can you _think _of what she will do?'

'Let us hope she learns some subtlety first.' He paused. 'We should expand her education -- if Arwen consents, of course.'

'When does she not?'

'She is Ancalimë's mother.'

'And Aragorn is her father-- yes; but she has had scarcely more to do with her than he. I wonder why she stayed at all when the Lord Elrond left.'

'Her only hope is to receive the Gift,' Faramir said.

'She could give it back, and yet she remains, and she withers, as the King's Men.'

'It is easier said than done. _We _of all people know that.' He looked out the window. The White Tree was in bloom. _The White Sapling, _he thought with a smile. Two years after the terrible victory at the Morannon, he had discovered the sapling and quietly borne it to where the dead tree still remained.

The celebrations had reached a feverish, hysterical peak. They had wanted to declare him King. Faramir suppressed a fastidious shudder.

_How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not? _Boromir's voice was impatient, eager, only unusual by the sharp edge in it.

And Denethor, as ever calm and steadfast. _Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice._

'Our Ancalimë, Queen of Gondor and Arnor,' Lalwen said, almost reverently.

'Not ours.'

'In all but name.' She laughed shortly. 'And you gave her a name, Faramir.'

'We all believed Arwen would die. Somebody had to do it, and it was . . . fitting.'

She walked to the window, rested her head against his arm. 'Truly, my heart rejoices. _Our Ancalimë _as queen, and you to rule in her stead until she may do so herself. Do you ever feel caught up in a great epic tale?' Her blue-grey eyes were calm and distant, and he wondered what she saw. They had never spoken of it, but he knew _he _was not the only one in this family with the blood of Númenor rich in his veins. 'There will be another war.'

'Yes.'

'I detest war.'

'There is always evil in the world, and it does not always take so convenient a form as the Enemy.'

'I have heard it said that Men have more of Morgoth in our hearts than any other of the people of Middle-earth.'

'Perhaps. Certainly the tales of Men do not say so.'

Her laughter rang out. 'That is true. But if there is evil in the hearts of Men-- '

He turned his head to look at her. Someone was singing in merry, broken Westron downstairs. It was the sort of song which simply could not exist in any dialect of Sindarin.

'Then you shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it.' She looked out the window. 'It will be grown by the time Ancalimë is.'

'Yes. Everything falls together properly, in the end.'


End file.
